by Jane Smiley
These little movements, bespeaking both exhaustion and thoughtfulness of others, struck me with a pointed tenderness. He yawned two or three times and rotated his shoulders, first the left and then the right, then he put down his boots and reached around to the back of his neck with his right hand, and rubbed and pressed there. I sat up and said, "Would you like me to do that?"
At the sound of my voice and the sight of me sitting up in my quilts, Thomas smiled with ready and evident warmth. I didn’t know that I had been watching for his smile, but I had been, for the remarks of the Border Ruffians that cast aspersions on my person had not gone as unnoticed as I’d let on. All he said was, "You’re safe, then, my dear wife. I’m very glad. I was torn about your coming, and worried, too." He sat down on the quilts, and we clung to each other. I said, "Frank preserved us."
"What happened to Bisket?"
"He melted away in the darkness, and we haven’t seen him since. Mrs. Bush said that we wouldn’t worry about him until the morning."
"Did you meet up with any of the Ruffians, then?"
"They did us no harm. Frank talked us through." But I didn’t want him to know the degree of danger, so I forbore to tell him the story, even though I suspected it would amuse him. He pulled the end of a quilt up over his stockinged feet. The hay house was cold, though the night was more moderate than recent ones out on our claim. I put my arm through his and smelled the nose-tingling mix of cold air, wood fire, earth, sweat, and wool in his clothes. I commenced rubbing his shoulders with my fingers, rotating them and pressing them into the flesh of his neck. We sat like that for a few minutes, listening to the snores and rustlings of the sleepers around us. He said quietly, "There are two hundred down by Franklin."
"How many do we have?"
"That many or more. Some men came in from Ottoman Creek and from Palmyra, too. Remember that fellow Paschal Fish, that Mr. Graves talked about? He’s come in, and offered to bring in some Wyandots. The Indians prefer us, at least."
"Mr. Bisket said the attack would come tomorrow."
"Some say that. I don’t think they’ll attack, myself. Our fault is that we like to underestimate the intelligence of their leaders. They have everything to lose by attacking, if you ask me. Every day we’re more strongly fortified, we have more men. They waited and lost the momentum. Of course, they declare themselves eager to attack, burn, kill, hang, and all."
I relinquished my grasp of his neck, and he lay down beside me, breathing out a sigh of relieved fatigue. "Still," I said, "the citizens of Quincy would be mighty surprised if the citizens of Alton attacked them, or even the citizens of Hannibal, on the Missouri side. The citizens of Hart-ford, in the state of Connecticut, would hardly attack those of Spring-field, Massachusetts. And yet here we are, building fortifications against Franklin!"
But he was half asleep and hadn’t the energy for astonishment.
There was no attack on Sunday. We were up before dawn, eating our griddle cakes, and then the men went out to drill and work on the fortifications. The plan was that we would gather in the four forts when the attack began, but until then we were free to go about as we chose. As the sun was coming up, Mrs. Bush hurried myself and Mrs. Lacey along toward the Free State Hotel.
"This is what we do all day," she said, "make cartridges. And talk, of course. Before this, they were piecing a quilt. Lidie, my dear, I don’t think you know Mrs. Wood." I did not, but soon she would be quite famous.
The cartridge-making factory was the roomy Wood cabin, right beside the Free State Hotel, and three or four women were already at it, two of them still in their dressing gowns, with their hair hanging down their backs. As we came in, one of the women was saying, "... finished counting. There are but thirteen cartridges apiece for two hundred twenty men."
"Most will have their own, surely," said another woman.
Another—Mrs. Wood herself—looked doubtful. "We mustn’t depend on that. Folks have enough shot and powder for a day or two of hunting game. War isn’t the same thing."
"How long do you think thirteen balls would last?"
"Not a day. They might sustain their attack for three days, my husband says. They’ve intercepted all the goods that are coming to Lawrence and stolen all the guns and ammunition. They’ll use what our merchants have coming against us."
You could load and fire a Sharps carbine in ten or fifteen seconds— that’s why the southerners thought they were repeaters. Thirteen cartridges was two or three minutes. The point of the Sharps was to be careless of ammunition, not careful of it. I said, "What about firing caps?"
"There seem to be plenty of those," said Mrs. Wood.
"You’re certain all the balls and all the powder in town are here?" said Mrs. Brown, whom I had met in the summer but who, I thought, probably didn’t recognize me. She was a slender and sharp-featured older lady, whose manner made you eager to please her.
Mrs. Wood sniffed. "That fellow Eaton gave up his powder yesterday morning when we three ladies impressed upon him the possible consequences of civic irresponsibility. I haven’t heard any tales of another hoard."
"I’ve been wondering about General Lane," said one of the younger women.
The others laughed.
"General Lane," said Mrs. Brown, "talks like he has twenty kegs of powder in his cellar, but he’s the same in everything. When the time comes, he’ll borrow freely of the men closest at hand."
"And abuse them into the bargain," said one of the women who hadn’t yet dressed. We all laughed, but our laugh reminded us of the fix we were in.
"Someone must tell Governor Robinson how low supplies are," said Mrs. Wood. So now he had become Governor Robinson.
"Tell Mrs. Robinson. She can tell him."
We all agreed that this was a good plan, but it didn’t solve the problem.
"You know," said Mrs. Bush, "there’s powder and lead, both, out on the Santa Fe Trail, if someone could go get it. Does anyone know Mr. Graves?"
"I do." I spoke up, not having said anything before.
"He’s settled now, in a cabin out by that little crick out there—Patter— son Crick they call it."
"And there’s two other caches," said Mrs. Brown. "My cousin’s brother has at least a twenty-five-pound keg. He had two in the summer."
"But who’ll go get them!" exclaimed the woman who’d been counting the cartridges, despair in her voice.
"I will," said Mrs. Brown and I in unison.
I said, "My nephew Frank and I got through just last night. But we need more than money to trade with Mr. Graves. He knows we aren’t sound on the goose." We talked for a moment about this. Of course, there were doubters—Mrs.Bush felt responsible for me and said to me in a low voice, "What will I tell Thomas when he comes in for his supper?"
"We’ll be back by then."
"Who is ’we’?"
"Frank won’t let me go without him!"
Mrs. Wood—who was, along with her husband, always eager to make the Missourians uncomfortable—Mrs. Brown, and I huddled together. The two of them would take Mrs. Wood’s buggy and her fast mare. Frank and I would take Jeremiah and borrow a light buggy from another of the ladies. Mr. Graves, it was said, had his place some five miles out, along the Santa Fe road. I explained to the women that I needed to be supplied with a certain liquid commodity over and above the money I would be taking with me. The women hesitated, but then one of them went away. She came back half an hour later, muttering, "It’s on the seat of the buggy, wrapped in a quilt."
Mrs. Brown’s cousin was not quite as far as Mr. Graves, and her other friend was near to him but off the road a ways. With two buggies, we all agreed, there was more of a chance that one or the other would get through.
"Getting back will be the trick," said Mrs. Wood. "A keg of powder looks like a keg of powder."
"We’ll think of something," said Mrs. Brown. "Don’t we always?’’ They were very self-assured, these New England dames.
I met Frank lounging along Vermont Street
, watching the drilling. He told me that one of our men, Pomeroy, had been taken and another man shot, named Barbour, who was riding his horse south to his claim to see his family after days in Lawrence. He was unarmed.
"We’ll take that as our lesson," I said.
Frank perked up.
We had Jeremiah hitched to the buggy in a few minutes and then went back to the Wood cabin to get the money they had gathered. Mr. Graves, of course, was known, at least by repute, to everyone, and my mission was considered less probable of success than that of Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Wood. As we drove south along Massachusetts Street, Frank practiced gesturing to me as if I couldn’t hear a word. But though there were roving bands of Missourians all along the way, and though I knew we would be relieved of our keg of highly rectified whiskey should any of them stop us, we saw only two or three, from a distance, and no one obstructed us in any way. This was, perhaps, more disconcerting. I couldn’t shake the conviction that they were there, hidden in the brush, behind trees, down in the bottoms of the Wakarusa River, which ran south of Lawrence. That they didn’t come out gave them mystery and power, and made them all the more deadly. Of course, I upheld the masquerade of deafness, but I listened to Frank’s talking and singing with a heart that beat as rapidly with excitement as with fear. Jeremiah moved through the cold air at a steady fast trot, his ears forward and his look as alert as a watchdog’s might be, but after a few miles of seeing and hearing nothing, I felt a little oppressed.
"Now, Mrs. Newton—for you see, I recognize you perfectly—" said Mr. Graves when we called him out, "I take the arrival of you two young persons as a sign that my southern friends have shown their usual forbearance in refraining from burning out and looting the noble city on the hill, or rather, under the hill." I saw that Mr. Graves had altered, or developed, his mode of speaking yet again. He was a mysterious man, possibly more dangerous than he allowed himself to appear.
"Still might," said Frank cheerfully. "They got some fieldpieces over there."
"Do they, indeed," said Mr. Graves, doubtfully. He showed no signs of asking us in, bitter cold though it was, and now that I was here, I realized that I had not developed a plan for gaining his supplies, should he have any. I said, "How are your warts, Mr. Graves?"
He lit up. "Now, ma’am, I’d forgotten that you were a party to, or at least a witness of, that most successful medical strategy. Yes, indeed, not one week after I left that package beside the road, I woke up miraculously—and I say miraculously, but indeed, the remedy was pure science— relieved of that dermatistical burden. I may say that the Indians of Kansas Territory look upon me as nearly a god."
"Are you running a store, Mr. Graves?"
"A store, a school, a church, a surgical dispensary, of sorts. I have four cows to be milked, and I sell the milk. It’s a quiet life, somewhat remote from the concerns of society—"
"But I thought you enjoyed—"
"I go among them, they come to me. It’s all much the same. You, for example, have come to me. Bringing with you a most prepossessing young man."
"You a trader?" said Frank.
"I am."
"Look at this, then." Frank pulled a large kerchief from his pocket and opened it on the footboard of the wagon. Mr. Graves stepped over to look. Along with a paper of needles, a tarnished spoon, half a dozen square nails, a small bit for a pony, and the head of a hammer, I was amazed to find myself perusing a pair of woman’s earbobs, elaborately fashioned of what seemed to be gold, small diamonds, and large, tear-shaped pearls. Mr. Graves said, "How much you want for that hammerhead, boy?"
"You got money?"
"I do."
"K.T. money? Or U.S. money?"
"Silver money."
Frank whispered to me, "I got that for an old bucket I found. How much should I ask?"
"Fifty cents."
"Four bits," said Frank to Mr. Graves.
"Pah!" said Mr. Graves. "An’t got a shaft. I can get a new hammer with a shaft made in Cincinnati, Ohio, for four bits."
"If," said Frank, "you intend to wait to do your hammering, but if you want to hammer now, this is the hammerhead I got."
Mr. Graves laughed and put his hand in his pocket. He handed Frank two quarter dollars and pulled his ear for him. Frank handed him the hammerhead.
"Mr. Graves," I said, "how are you supplied for, uh, powder and lead?"
"My needs are taken care of. Powder and lead have come under heavy demand lately, I will say."
"Other things, too, I’m sure," I said, cocking my head toward the wrapped-up keg of whiskey.
Mr. Graves now looked directly at that and, I think, realized for the first time what it was. He grew very smooth, saying, "When the first two are in requisition by my compatriots, the last is highly likely to be wanted, as well."
"Yankee owned, Mr. Graves, but Kentucky made, I’m told."
Mr. Graves walked around the buggy. The keg of whiskey seemed to take on a rather queenly bearing, wrapped as it was in a crazy quilt made of silks and satins. He looked again, then walked forward to Jeremiah’s head and gave his ears a tickle. Jeremiah flicked them back and forth.
"Sir," said Frank.
"Yes, son?" said Mr. Graves.
"Them earbobs are the real thing. They come from New Orleans, and when they were new, they cost three hundred dollars."
I said, "Frank Brereton, how did you get hold of such a thing? Who in the world would give those to you? If you picked them up on the street, you have to return them to their rightful owner!"
"I didn’t pick them up on the street. I an’t a thief."
"I am not a thief."
"I know you an’t. I an’t, either."
I pursed my lips in frustration, while Mr. Graves said, "Let me see those again, boy. I need to get a feel of them."
Frank pulled out the kerchief and untied it. Now all three of us looked shamelessly at the earbobs. All I could tell was that the gold had a clean look. Mr. Graves took them up and cradled them in his hand. After a moment, he put them back, his expression sober, and said, "You young people have taken a great risk coming here. There were Missourians here all night last night."
"Then," said Frank, "you must be clear out of whiskey."
Mr. Graves turned on his heel and walked into his cabin, closing the door behind him.
We sat there for a long time, but the door didn’t open. At first we were quiet, but then Frank plucked my sleeve and said, "Mrs. Lacey gave ’em to me. She said they were nothing to her. If Mr. Lacey was to get killed for having no ammunition, she could never wear’em, anyway."
Jeremiah shook his head, rattling his harness, and I was impatient, too. Though we were standing in the lee of the cabin-store, the wind whistled around it and seemed to swirl into the buggy and drive out all possible warmth. I said, "Well, we can’t wait all day for nothing. It’s past noon already."
I threw off the quilt I was wrapped in and got down from my seat. I was going to turn Jeremiah around, but too many items—cases, barrels, and kegs—were stacked in the way, so I led him forward and saw that the easiest way was around the cabin. I pulled my shawl more tightly around my face and ducked my head. Jeremiah rattled his bit at having to go into the wind, and we stepped forward.
Behind the cabin, sitting on some stacks of hay, were three kegs of powder. I murmured, "Hey, Frank," and pointed. He jumped off the buggy seat and ran over to the kegs. I was amazed they stood there in full view. Mr. Graves could have hidden them behind a stove he had also stored there, or covered them with pieces of sailcloth and wagon wheels. Those, too, were near at hand. On the one hand, Mr. Graves’s store was five miles from Lawrence. On the other, the "war" had been going on for almost a week. "This one’s mostly empty," called Frank. And then: "But this one’s full." It weighed some twenty-five pounds, probably a quarter of Frank’s weight. He hefted it out of the hay and carried it over to the buggy. After a moment, I helped him lift it onto the seat. Then we unwrapped the keg of whiskey and, together, carried that o
ver to the spot where the powder had been. I looked around carefully, but I didn’t see any evidence of balls. I even peered through a chink between the logs of the cabin wall, but there was nothing to be seen—the space had been well mudded and papered over on the inside. There was no sign of Mr. Graves.
Now that we had made our trade, we quickly wrapped the keg of powder in the quilt. The day was far gone past noon. I led Jeremiah the rest of the way around the cabin and out into the prairie track. I’d forgotten about bands of Missourians, but now I remembered them and thought that I saw some men and horses some distance away. We jumped into the buggy, and I whipped Jeremiah into a gallop. The cold wind made our eyes tear up so that we could see nothing and had to trust to Jeremiah’s sense of direction. Nor could I see whether people were following us, but I acted as if they were. I never looked back to see if Mr. Graves came out of his cabin, but I knew I had given him two boons, and they were a barrel of highly rectified whiskey and the right to say that we black abolitionists had stolen his powder—he hadn’t aided us of his own volition. Jeremiah was all the horse we thought him to be: he flew with the buggy back toward Lawrence, only breaking to a fast trot when we were nearly there. Perhaps there were stories behind us—of men who almost caught us, or saw us, or shot at us, but we didn’t know them.
There was only one story ahead of us. Two men, bearded and wrapped up in hats and coats, stood their horses broadside in our path as we neared Lawrence. We could see the light of the fires up ahead and even smell them faintly. I simply drove Jeremiah at these men, thinking to push through, but at the last moment, one of them grabbed Jeremiah’s bridle and hauled us to a halt. The other man trotted over to the buggy. He trotted to the wrong side, to Frank’s side rather than to the side that the keg was on. I was sure they were Border Ruffians, since that was how they were dressed, but I never heard them speak, because as soon as the one man put his hand on Frank’s arm, Frank held out his other hand and said, "Here’s something for you, sir!" When the man opened his hand, Frank dropped the earbobs into it, and I shouted, "Get on, Jeremiah!" and I have to say that my whip flicked the man who was holding Jeremiah’s bridle. He let go, I drove on, and Frank looked back in the gathering gloom. After a moment, he sat up in the buggy seat, grinning. "They’re looking at them. The one man just whooped, and now it looks like they’re about to have a fight over them."
